


Woodland Tales

by callmecloudybutdontreally



Series: CountryHumans [7]
Category: Geography (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Drabble Collection, Injury, Magic, Multi, One Shot Collection, Shorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24764176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmecloudybutdontreally/pseuds/callmecloudybutdontreally
Summary: Stories from a mysterious woodland which location I won't say. These can be either short drabbles or one shot sized.Feel free to drop requests!
Relationships: France & United Kingdom (Anthropomorphic), France/United Kingdom (Anthropomorphic)
Series: CountryHumans [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599724
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been dead for too long, even though I said I wouldn't be lol. I've been working on an original story for some time now and have been putting most of my focus into the plot and art that will go into it, instead of the oneshots that I still want to write. Sorry for not posting uwu

There were voices.

Every time, every goddamn time, he heard voices. Walking through these woods brought back memories of himself and his brothers, of his best friends, of his children, and yet none of them were nice. A brief image of one of them laying on their side with a bayonet in their stomach, another of a tree falling over after another had been thrown into it so hard that it snapped the wood into a perfect half. Men standing in formation as they shot across the woods at invisible enemies. The promise that his younger brother had made to him the moment that he sent men to his land for his own profit.

The voices would scream at him. They would yell things both from the past and from the present, insults and truths that would bring any sensible man to prove himself not guilty. There were hundreds of them, all angry at him for something that he had done, someone that  _ he  _ had killed. Every now and then he would catch a glimpse of a spirit, of sorts, who would be attempting to tear at his clothes and cut his flesh. Even if they were corporeal, he wouldn’t have felt it.

As an immortal you can’t feel physical pain, but you sure can suffer heartache.

Every time he comes here, he catches sight of  _ her _ . His best friend. His lover. His enemy. She would stand somewhere in the distance, visible but not close enough for details. She would peek at him when he grew closer, and he would see her face. It never stayed the same, just like in reality. It would change into a different person every time, but he knew better. He knew that she was still the same.

Eventually he would be close enough to see her dress’ details, the soft imprints of white and silver that wove their way through the sky blue fabric. The mud that always stained the bottom of it dry and flaking, the tear in the neck and dried blood down her chest that signaled how badly it had been damaged from the guillotine. She would peak at him again, her blue eyes lighting up, before she turned away and started running.

He was never able to keep up.

She would quickly disappear into the woods again, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the voices once more.

He would wander around, hoping to find her again, before eventually giving up and leaving.


	2. art i guess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> artwork that is not relevant to anything? from /cloudy/? its more likely than you think!

its a bit blurry because it got blown up but yeah

have at it


	3. Sticks and Strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The forest is where childhoods both begin and die.

_ Children, laughing happily as they played, sticks in hand and rocks in their pockets, pretending to be warriors. Tripping over logs and twigs as they twisted around to see, laughter bubbling and escaping as they brushed themselves off and kept moving. Mud always covered their trousers and skirts, mud which their mother would undoubtedly shout at them about when they came home, but they couldn’t care less. Four children, three boys and a girl, all were having a good time playing pretend. _

_ The eldest was the girl, her name Cymru. She stayed by the riverbank when they played, picking up stones that would fit in her small basket. She always had with her a slingshot, for which her ammo was pebbles, to make sure the boys behaved. She would put them in her basket, but away from the other rocks. Pebbles had a place next to the stones, but they didn’t belong with the stones. _

_ Her mother had always said that girls shouldn’t have slingshots, but she couldn’t agree less. It made the pebbles she picked up have purpose, instead of just resting in the riverbank, almost longingly filling the hole where a stone had once been. It also gave her something to fight with, because she didn’t like touching most things. Swords and daggers were made for her brothers to wield—she preferred the range that a slingshot offered. _

_ They would play with sticks and stones, she would play with sting and rocks. _

_ She watched in almost awe as Lloegr swung his long stick at Iwerddon, Iwerddon tripping over his own feet as he scrambled to dodge. Meanwhile, Yr Alban was making his way over to Lloegr quietly, sticks raised as he prepared to strike. However, before he could, a leaf crinkled under his feet, and Lloegr whipped around, falling over in the process. Cymru couldn’t help but laugh as she watched her brothers scramble around in confusion all laughing as they rushed to stand and get back into it. _

Those were the good times.

Adults, sharing sour expressions as they chose sides, dangerous objects in hand and flasks at their sides, ready for battle. Carefully stepping over logs as they looked for their enemy, soft murmurs in different languages to signal where. Blood covered the mail under their clothes, soaking into the fabric of their tunics, blood which their mortal friends would undoubtedly fuss over when they arrived home, but they couldn’t care less. Four adults, three men and a woman, were preparing for a battle.

The eldest was a woman, her name was Wales. She was standing next to England, her hand on the quiver that hung from her sash. She had woven it herself, strong enough to carry a decent amount of metal tipped arrows. Along with that, she’d sawed herself a bow, which she was clutching tightly now, preparing for the moment when the enemy would eventually show themselves.

Mother had always said that women shouldn’t carry hunting weapons, but she couldn’t agree less. It made the twigs under he feet have purpose, instead of being failed attempts at a branch of a tree, falling off once the tree realized that they were a worthless piece. It also gave her something to fight with, because she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to handle holding a sword that would likely end up covered in someone’s blood. Swords and daggers were made for her brother’s to weild—she preferred the range that a slingshot offered.

They would fight with sticks and metal, she would fight with string and arrows.

In the end, England made the first move. He rushed forward, out of their small hiding place, and into the trees, stopping only when he was in an open area. Wales followed, her bow in hand and an arrow gently nocked. England took a deep breath, then proceeded to yell out;

“Surrender already—Your lands already have!”

It was almost instantly that a response came—a knife had been thrown from above, only missing because England had flung himself out of the way. She saw a tuft of auburn hair, and she knocked her arrow fully, pulling back and aiming for a moment before letting go. The arrow let out a soft sound as it escaped, and the arrow struck one of the branches. However, that branch wasn’t a branch, because Scotland let out a yell and swung himself over onto a lower branch, an arrow protruding from his shoulder. He ripped it out carelessly, tossing it down and placing a glowing hand over the wound.

She took the shot again, aiming for somewhere less dangerous, but before she could let go there were vines wrapping around her hands, moving them to position at England. Just before her fingers gave out, she shoved it down, the arrow striking the ground near her brother. He turned around in time to see Ireland rushing past her, dagger in hand, preparing to strike him. England used his cavalry sword to block the blow which would’ve been devastating.

_ Just like that, the game began. _

Just like that, the battle began.


End file.
